Isn’t it funny how things work out sometimes?

by goatlove

I mean, I don’t particularly feel like they’re “working out” for me at the mo’, but I’m aware that sometimes things work out and that at those times it’s often funny-interesting.

I’m not trying to be a Negative Nancy or Sulky Sal or Pessimistic Paula or anything.  And I realize that “real life” can’t always be rainbows and prancing unicorns, like last summer.

Ah, summer ‘010.  What a time indeed.  New home, new job, new love.  But this year things are real, which means they’ve lost a certain amount of daily magic.  Now I’ve got porch roaches, weeds, and a crap ton of dirty dishes piled 2 miles high in the sink.

Recent magical moments:

  • Earlier this week it was too wet and cold for black flies.
  • Things are GROWING in the garden!
  • We had our maiden voyage on the Emily Guirl, the Collector’s row-boat (I’ve generally frowned on the feminine personification of modes of transport, but somehow that makes the gesture all the more hilarious).
  • Someone told me I’m good with kids, which I had known, and stored, and forgotten. 

Two of my faults:

I suffer from an affliction.  It’s not a big deal, fairly common, something one usually picks up as a kid.  Low self-esteem.  I glance at a book from time to time that I consider my current therapist and it encourages me on the path to psychological freedom from this malady.  I also keep two notes for myself that remind me of some of my finer points.  I keep one of these in my wallet and one in my glasses case – two places, oddly enough, that I rarely look.  But when I do find those notes, it’s like a high-five.  The book and the notes are two things I try not to be embarrassed about, but usually I go out of my way to hide them from the world.

I’m an insanely jealous person.  I’m jealous of everything.  Two things in particular: your garden and the Collector’s jobs… because I picture him having a jolly good time with his coworkers who seem to be either best friends or old crushes. 

J. Walter Weatherman:

Saturday night I came home from work to a dark, empty house and no car in the driveway.  “Where the hell is my boyfriend?” I said to the kitchen table.  I called my best friends and we ended up talking through all of the scenarios that could possibly keep him from being home at that moment.  This excercise kept my emotion meter bouncing between furious and terrified.  Turns out he was up the road drinking wine with our mutual boss/friends.  He came home an hour later but by that time I was too mad and tired to do it.  And that’s why you always leave a note.

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